


A Quiet Christmas

by richmahogany



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Judge for Yourself, can I tag this autistic!Reid, not very Christmassy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richmahogany/pseuds/richmahogany
Summary: Spencer Reid spends an enjoyable Christmas Day on his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a non-sad Christmas fic in which someone spends Christmas by themselves, and Spencer seemed the ideal candidate to star in one. Didn't get it ready in time for Christmas, sorry. I didn't set out to write an autistic!Reid fic, but it seemed to shape up that way. Not sure if the tag is justified, though. A lot of the detail is drawn from my own experience, but since my diagnostic status is best described as 'questioning', you could argue that I don't know what I'm talking about. If you have an opinion on this, don't be shy and let me know in the comments.

Spencer Reid always tried to take time to visit his mother over Christmas, and this year he had taken a couple of days’ leave before Christmas Day to spend with her. When he arrived there, however, it turned out that his mother was going through a bad time. On Spencer’s first visit, she didn’t much react to him at all. When he returned the next day, she even refused to see him.

“It’s not a good time,” the doctor told him. “You’d be better off coming back when her symptoms improve. I’m sorry that you should have made the long journey for nothing, but there is very little point in you seeing her at the moment.”

Spencer was forced to agree. He was disappointed and worried, but he saw the doctor’s point. The severity of his mother’s symptoms ebbed and flowed, and there would be a better time when she could appreciate his visit. He rebooked and caught a night flight back east.  
He probably should have slept on the plane, but he didn’t. He could sleep fine on the team jet, but not on a commercial flight. Maybe he would have relaxed more if he had listened to the classical music channel, but using the in-flight entertainment system was out of the question. While he could adjust the loudness of the music to his liking, any announcements would be pumped through the earphones at ear-splitting volume, and he didn’t fancy jumping out of his seat every time. He spent his time reading or tying his limbs into a pretzel in an effort to get comfortable enough to close his eyes for a few minutes.

He landed early in the morning on Christmas Day. He was still officially off the clock, and nobody else from the team would be at work today, so he made his way to his apartment.  
He entered the hall, dropped his bag and went into the living room. There he took of his coat, threw it onto the couch, sat down and removed his shoes. It was cold in the apartment, but for the moment he didn’t feel it. What would he do now? He didn’t feel like going to bed, although he hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane.  
Even so, he wasn’t very tired now. He was at home, he didn’t have to go to work, and he had the whole day in front of him to spend any way he wanted. Suddenly he smiled to himself. Actually, this was nice. This was great! A whole day with no one to disturb him, no one likely to call him, no one to knock on his door, no one he had to interact with. Just him, his books, his things and his coffee.

Coffee! Spencer hurried into the kitchen and set his coffeemaker going. Airline coffee was undrinkable, so he had gone without for many hours. While the coffee percolated, he went into the bedroom and changed his clothes. He selected an old t-shirt, softened by years of wear and washing, sweatpants with a loose waistband (he always had to pull them up, but that was so much better than being pinched round the middle), a soft fleece top and, because it was still cold in his apartment, a favorite cardigan. On his feet he put the furry slippers which Penelope had given him once and which looked like a pair of Tribbles.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a mug of the fresh coffee and went into the living room again. There was a lot of reading material he looked forward to: forensic and criminological journals, philosophy books, a Vonnegut novel Morgan had pressed on him. That should keep him entertained for a while. One thing nobody seemed to comprehend was that being able to read very fast didn’t mean he had to. He could just as well slow down and really enjoy a book, savoring the words. Particularly when he was reading fiction for his own pleasure, he didn’t race through the book in 10 minutes flat. Speed reading was fine when there was a lot of knowledge – facts and figures – to be absorbed in a short time, but with fiction or poetry it was far more enjoyable to pay attention to the style, to think about what you read and to really imagine the world created by the author.  
So, where was that novel? On the desk, probably. Or – no, he had to take most things off the desk and pile them on the floor, because the top was currently occupied by an unfinished 2500 piece jigsaw puzzle of the night sky. Spencer stepped up to the desk to look for the book. Desktop or floor? This little pile...hang on, that big red star here on this puzzle piece, with the two others beside it, that had to be Antares in the constellation of Scorpio. Which meant that the piece should fit right...here. Yes! And from there it should be easy to find...Spencer sat down to get a better look of his box of pieces.

When he resurfaced two hours later, his fingers were cold and stiff, and he was slightly shivering with the cold. He now realized what his body had tried to tell him for a while, but he had been too absorbed to listen. His coffee had gone cold as well. But the puzzle was finished. It looked beautiful, all the little bright spots on the dark background, with the sweep of the Milky Way undulating through the middle. He brushed his hands over the puzzle. The smooth yet textured surface felt pleasing under his fingers.  
With a sigh he got up and turned the central heating on. Then he went into the kitchen to get a fresh, hot cup of coffee. He suddenly felt hungry as well. When he opened his cupboards, though, he realized how bare they were. Nothing there except some pasta and cereal. Not even milk. No matter, he preferred his cereal dry anyway.  
Carrying the bowl and the mug he went back to the living room and sat on the couch, sideways with one armrest and a cushion behind him and his legs steepled in front of him. This way he could wedge his bowl of cereal between his stomach and his thighs and hold an opened journal at the same time. Reading academic journals might not be everybody’s idea of a nice day off, but it was something Spencer had always done. When it came to choosing his reading material he didn’t differentiate between work and play. There was so much to be interested in, and pursuing that interest always felt like pleasure to him, even if to an outsider it looked like a chore. He ploughed through five journals in quick succession, but then he felt himself slowing down. Was he getting tired after all? He still didn’t want to sleep, but…

When he woke up it was already early afternoon, and he felt hungry again. He thought about going out and buying some food. But did he really want to? That is, assuming that there even was a shop that was open today? Going out meant getting up from the couch and changing his clothes again. It meant going outside, where it was cold and, by the looks of it, wet. It meant not knowing which shop to go to because he didn’t know what was open. It meant putting on his public face, talking to the shopkeeper, all the “Merry Christmas” and the inevitable small talk, and deciding what to buy, and keeping on his public face all the time because he might run into a neighbor, and “Merry Christmas” again, and “what are you doing? all alone on Christmas Day?” and oh no, depending on which neighbor it was they might invite him in, and he would have to maintain his public face for an hour or more…

He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked slightly back and forth as all those details swirled in his brain. What to do? Stay or go? No, he thought, this was his day, his day alone. He wouldn’t go anywhere. It was too much to ask of himself. Anyway, he could just as well eat another bowl of cereal. And later he could cook the pasta, and if he found the taste too bland, he could sprinkle it with a bit of sugar. Mmh, that actually sounded quite nice. The tsunami of details receded into the background. He continued to sit and rock for a while, just because it felt good. He started to hum as well, not a tune, just long drawn out, low notes, producing almost no sound, only a pleasant vibration in his throat. He looked towards the window. Outside the shade of gray turned ever so slightly darker as time went on, although it wouldn’t be dark in quite a while yet.

Eventually he got up, fetched himself a second bowl of cereal and more coffee, and returned to the couch and the pile of books and journals. There was still plenty more to read for him, and how joyful to be able to spend a whole day just reading what he wanted. He smiled to himself as he took another journal from the pile and opened it.

In the evening he did cook the pasta, and he did sprinkle it with sugar, and it tasted just as good as he’d imagined. When he’d finished eating, he took his notepad and pen and wrote a letter to his mother. He was still worried about her. He always worried when her symptoms got worse. At the back of his mind was always the fear that this time she wouldn’t come back from it, that it was only the beginning of an inexorable downward slide. But she had always rallied before, and all he knew about schizophrenia told him that the bad times had to be expected along with the good. He wrote to her about his Christmas Day, that he had spent it by himself, sitting on the couch, reading, and knew that when she read it, she would understand that this was a good day for him.

He retreated into his bedroom with yet another book and a last mug of coffee to drink before bed. He was pretty much immune to caffeine, he thought. At least it had never stopped him from sleeping. He read some more, lying on his side in bed. Finally he switched off the light and snuggled into the comforter. He took his pillow and turned it over, so he could enjoy the sensation of cool, smooth cotton on his cheek. Tomorrow he would be back at work. Back with the team, surrounded by people, and he would have to listen and speak all day. But he didn’t mind. He knew he could do it. They were his friends as well as his colleagues, and he liked to spend time with them. And he had been given this whole day to himself, which had recharged his batteries. He was ready to go back.

*

When he entered the lobby the next morning, someone called out to him:

“Hello, Dr Reid! Had a good Christmas?”

He turned and saw Mandy, one of the security guards, smiling at him.

He smiled back.

“Yes,” he replied, “yes, I did.”

And he meant it.


End file.
